So I wrote a story, my first byline, about this old guy on my block. Turns out his classic, limited edition, prime condition hotrod was used by Superman as a way to smash Metallo into the river. He showed the car off every weekend, down under the Byrne Bridge, spitshine polished that car every day.
Superman came by to thank me for writing such a human piece, said my voice was what Metropolis needed, especially in today's superhuman world. On my way home from work I spotted the old guy with a rusted, battered frame of his old car sitting in his driveway.
And there was Superman, sleeves rolled up, and getting schooled in car mechanics as he helped him restore that hunk of steel.
Superman's looking kind of unsure as he peers with his X-Ray vision into the engine, under the large hood of a classic hotrod that's beaten up, rusted, smoking and dripping water from the bottom. He's got his sleeves rolled up, one foot on the bumper, grease on his hands, scratching his chin. The old guy is an aged rockabilly, clean cut, but slicked back sparse hair. He looks like he's explaining something as he gestures in some mechanical way.